Mystery in Arizona Read online

  Trixie and Honey slipped on the jackets which matched their skirts and they all hurried out to the driveway. Mr. Wellington and Jane Brown were sharing the front seat with Tenny who was behind the wheel. The boys were waiting impatiently in the back seat, and the girls quickly climbed in to occupy the middle seat.

  Tenny released the brake and stepped on the gas. “We got a heap of travelin’ to do,” he said, “if we’re goin’ to have time to tie on a real good feed bag before that there fiesta gets started.”

  “Where are we going to have dinner?” Jane Brown asked. “I forgot to ask Uncle Monty when he was explaining my new job to me.”

  Trixie thought with satisfaction, So, it’s “Uncle Monty” already. Jane was wearing a very becoming suit and a perky little hat and she looked almost pretty.

  “At a right swanky chuck wagon,” Tenny answered her question. “The dining-room of the Pioneer Hotel.”

  “That is a swanky place,” Honey put in. “Delicious food, too. I can’t imagine why Mrs. Sherman preferred to eat a cold supper at the ranch. Do you suppose she did it just to be mean? To make Rosita stay and serve the food?”

  “Mrs. Sherman mean?” Tenny demanded. “Why, what’re you-all talkin’ about? Her heart’s as big as a saddle blanket.”

  “You’re crazy,” Trixie said tartly. “She’s just about the most disagreeable person I ever met.”

  Tenny laughed. “Only trouble with her is that she got more than her share when humans was given the power of speech. When she gets goin’ you couldn’t check her with a choke rope and a snubbin’ post. But she don’t mean half o’ what she says.”

  “How did you get to know her so well?” Trixie asked suspiciously. “She didn’t arrive until Saturday and I gather that she doesn’t like to ride.”

  “She’s a great one for askin’ questions, too,” he went on, just as though Trixie hadn’t said anything. “Jist this mornin’ she wanted to know why I always wear a bandanna. I told her a cowboy could hardly get along without his bandanna.

  “When we’re on the range and wash at a water hole it comes in handy as a towel. If the drinkin’ water is muddy it gits strained through a bandanna. Makes a mighty good blindfold if the bronc you’re ridin’ has to be blindfolded afore you can put a bridle on him. Serves as a piggin’ string if you come across a calf and don’t happen to have a piggin’ string along with you at the time.”

  “A what?” Di asked.

  “A short piece of rope,” he explained. “Many a calf has had its legs tied together with a bandanna.”

  “But mostly,” Mart put in, “it’s used to protect you from the sun, isn’t it, Tenny? Keeps the back of the neck from getting burned and if you’re riding into the sun you wear it as a mask to protect the lower part of your face.”

  “Serves as a respirator, too,” Jim added, “when the cattle you’re working kick up a cloud of dust. Right, Tenny?”

  “Right,” the cowboy said. “Guess you all know that if a cowpoke gets hurt his bandanna can be used as a sling or a tourniquet. But mebbe you didn’t know that in olden times it was used as a sort of signal flag. If a stranger was approachin’ you from the distance and you wanted to tell him to scram, you’d wave your bandanna from left to right in a semicircle. And when a cowboy is workin’ in a gale what do you suppose he uses to keep his hat from blowin’ off? And when it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the desert he wears his bandanna under his hat to help keep his head cool.”

  “My goodness!” Jane Brown exclaimed. “I always thought you wore those kerchiefs as sort of decorations. I mean, instead of a necktie. And those things you wear on your legs—chaps—they’re just for fun, aren’t they?”

  “I should say not!” Tenny exploded. “They keep our legs from gettin’ scratched by thorny brush and barbed-wire fences. And our cuffs perteck our wrists from sprains and rope burns. You can get a real bad burn from a rope; that’s why we always wear gloves. And our high-heeled boots—there’s nothin’ sissy about ’em. They keep our feet from slippin’ through the stirrups. If you get throwed and the hoss runs away, you’re pretty likely to get kilt if a foot is caught in the stirrup. Also, when we’re ropin’ a hoss or a steer on foot, we can dig right into the ground with them high heels.”

  They were on the main highway now, speeding toward the center of Tucson. “Here’s somethin’ you may not know,” Tenny continued. “A cowboy never lassoes a critter; he ropes it.”

  They all began to ask him questions then, but Trixie sat silently, listening attentively. Could this be the same man who had talked to Rosita without a trace of cowboy lingo?

  It wasn’t possible. There must be another cowboy at the ranch, Trixie decided, who looks enough like Tenny to be his twin.

  But later that evening as they were leaving the school after the ceremony, Tenny stopped at the entrance to speak to one of the teachers. Trixie had been so absorbed by the colorful religious pageant that she lagged dreamily behind the others. Then all of a sudden she became very wide-awake as she heard Tenny say, “It’s working out splendidly, thank you.”

  “Good,” the other man replied. “In another year we’ll be calling you Dr. Stetson.”

  Now there could be no doubt about it. Tenny was masquerading as a cowboy. But why?

  Chapter 14

  Lady Astorbilt

  Trixie decided to keep her suspicions of Tenny to herself. Nobody, not even Honey, would believe her, and the boys would either make fun of her, saying she was imagining voices, or scold her for not minding her own business.

  As they dressed the next morning Honey said, “I wouldn’t have missed La Posada for anything. Didn’t those little Mexican children look darling dressed up as Mary and Joseph and the pilgrims in the procession? And while they were chanting the ancient litany I got a great big lump in my throat. ‘Open the door,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘that the Queen of Heaven may enter.’ ”

  Trixie nodded. “I liked the piñata part best. I was yelling as loudly as the kids when that little blindfolded girl finally broke the olla. I’m glad it was a girl, not a boy. Boys always think they’re smarter than girls but they’re not.”

  Honey laughed. “You hate boys right now because Jim and Brian are tutoring you. But seriously, Trix—you don’t want to miss the rodeo this afternoon or the square dance tonight. Please study like anything after lunch.”

  Di joined them then and they went out to the kitchen for breakfast. The boys had already set the tables and were now watching Maria make tortillas.

  “It has to be hand-ground corn meal,” she said, after greeting the girls. “And the water must be boiling and salted. Now the dough is ready. Each of you take a piece and pat it between your palms like this until it becomes a thin sheet.”

  Clumsily the boys began to imitate Maria’s skilled movements. Trixie went off into gales of laughter.

  “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you can,” she hooted. “I’ll take toast, thank you.”

  Maria deftly slapped her piece of dough down on the hot griddle. Then she turned it to brown the other side.

  “One does not become an expert all of a sudden,” she told Trixie. “But, fortunately for me, the boys learn very quickly.”

  “I don’t see why you don’t give us cooking lessons,” Honey complained. “Mexican Customs is the topic of my theme so I ought to know a little something about Mexican cooking.”

  Maria smiled at her gravely. “Perhaps later. There is not time now.”

  The boys’ tortillas were now browned on both sides and they sat down at the table to eat them with melted butter and maple syrup. “Dee-licious,” said Mart. “Better slap yourself up a couple, Trix.”

  Trixie calmly finished her toasted peanut butter sandwich and drained her glass of milk. “I have no time for such foolishness,” she said. “I have to beard an ogress in her den.”

  “How charming,” said Mart with his mouth full. “I assume that you are about to put to rights the cell of Mrs. Astorbilt
Sherman?”

  “You assume correctly,” replied Trixie. “She never stays in the dining-room long for breakfast, but if she gets a glimpse of a tortilla made by one of you boys she’ll bolt back to her room like a frightened jack rabbit.”

  “But, Trixie,” Di protested, “it’s only seven o’clock. You can’t go near the guests’ rooms for another hour.”

  “I know,” Trixie replied. “I’m going to do some work on my theme before eight. This is one day when I am going riding with the first group. On account of the rodeo there won’t be any second group. I am also not going to miss the rodeo.” She turned to Jim. “What form of torture have you cooked up for me today?”

  “The usual,” he said cheerfully. “Weights and measures, fractions and decimals. There are ten problems on page twenty-six of your workbook.”

  “I did those in school last month,” Trixie told him with a sniff.

  “That’s right,” Jim said with a mischievous grin. “The idea now is for you to do them correctly. Some day you’re going to find it convenient to know that there are more than two pints in a gallon.”

  “You’re wasting your breath on that squaw,” said Mart. “For years I have been trying in vain to get her to give me the correct answer to that simplest of all weights and measures problems: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?”

  “Pooh,” said Di. “That’s not a problem. It’s a jawbreaker—and in case you’re interested, you said ‘How many peckled pippers’ instead of—oh, well, never mind.”

  “Nobody could answer that question,” Honey put in. “There probably are no such things as pickled peppers and if there were they’d probably vary in size.”

  “You use pickled peppers when you make chili sauce, don’t you, Maria?” Brian put in.

  “Dried chili peppers,” she said. “But one can easily pickle peppers by putting them sliced with onions and garlic in a crock and covering all with a brine of vinegar and salt.”

  “That proves my point,” Honey said quickly. “Before you could answer Mart’s problem you’d have to know how many slices make a whole pepper. And that’s impossible.”

  “Besides,” Di added, “Peter Piper couldn’t have picked a peck of peckled pippers because pickled peppers don’t grow. They’re pickled after they’re picked.”

  Mart was almost hysterical with laughter. “You girls grow pickled brains,” he finally got out. “The answer to my problem is quite simple. In two words—one peck.”

  Trixie glared at him. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

  Mart groaned. “Are you referring to Pete Piper? If so, I’d rather not hear any more about him.” He turned to Jim. “In fact, if anyone mentions the name Pete in my presence I shall lie on the floor and scream.”

  “Don’t look now,” said Trixie, “but prepare to scream. Hi, Petey,” she shouted, as Maria’s little boy came in.

  Everyone, including Maria, burst into laughter, and the little boy stared at them solemnly. Maria sobered quickly.

  “I told you to stay in bed until I called you, mi vida,” she said.

  “Want my breakfast,” he announced. “I’m going to school.”

  “Well, all right,” Maria said reluctantly. “I guess you have not caught cold after all. Come and have some tortillas. The big boys are eating theirs with butter and syrup. You will like that, yes?”

  “I’m tired of tortillas,” he said. Trixie slipped past him through the doorway, and then to her amazement she heard him say, “I won’t eat anyfing ’less I can have some dead people’s bread.”

  Oh, oh, Trixie thought as she hurried on to her room. Dead people’s bread! What on earth could he mean by that?

  Then she dismissed everything else from her mind and concentrated on her theme. The day before she had borrowed from the bookcases in the living-room a stack of beautifully illustrated magazines which contained articles on the Navahos. Soon she was completely absorbed in the history of Navaho silver craft.

  She learned that concha belts derived the name from the shell-like form of the decorations on them. Some of the Plains Indians wore these round or slightly oval plates on their long braids. The Navaho warriors wore their hair in a single queue at the back of their heads, so they attached the conchas to pieces of leather which they wore around their waists. One concha, with a diamond-shaped slot in the center, served as a buckle for the leather lacing of the belt. The old belts, Trixie discovered, were wider and heavier than modern ones and always had exactly seven conchas in them.

  She was about to write in her own words what she had learned about concha belts when the breakfast bell chimed. Quickly she tidied the desk, giving Mrs. Sherman time to get to the dining-room.

  But her plotting was wasted. When she tapped on the elderly woman’s door a cross voice said, “Come in, come in.”

  The door was yanked open by Mrs. Sherman who looked larger than usual in a voluminous pink satin and lace negligee. “Oh, my goodness,” she greeted Trixie. “I hoped you were Rosita bringing me a cup of black coffee. I have no time for breakfast. I must pack.” She waved her hands. “Did you ever see such a mess? I hardly know where to begin.”

  The small room did indeed look as though a hurricane had rushed through it, leaving in its wake a tumbled mass of clothing. Sheer stockings and lingerie were impaled on the spurs of Mrs. Sherman’s beautifully decorated cowboy boots which were sprawling incongruously on top of her desk.

  The bed was heaped high with bright shirts, Levi’s, bandannas, sweaters, and skirts. Sitting on top of the mound was a ten-gallon Stetson. The chaise longue was hidden by a thick layer of full-skirted evening gowns, and Trixie guessed that the dressing-table stool must be at the bottom of that pile of bathing suits and terry cloth robes.

  Slowly it dawned on Trixie that Mrs. Sherman had come to the ranch planning to spend several months.

  “Oh, you can’t go,” she heard herself cry out. “Not until you’ve tried it for a week anyway. The rodeo this afternoon will be fun. And the square dance tonight. And Friday there’s going to be a moonlight ride with a steak fry on the desert and—”

  She stopped suddenly as her eyes wandered to the cluttered dressing-table top. “Oh, you’ve got some beautiful Navaho jewelry. Just like the colored pictures in my magazines. And—and, oh, Mrs. Sherman! A real old, old concha belt.”

  Mrs. Sherman let out a loud sigh. “Yes, the jewelry is beautiful and the belt belongs in a museum. And I need ’em about as much as I need two heads. But what could I do? Poor little Rosita needed a hundred dollars in a hurry so I bought the lot from her. I plan to leave the whole kit and boodle in her room when I depart—if for no other reason than that there’s no room in my trunk for them.”

  Trixie’s weak knees gave way and she sank down to the multi-colored Indian rug on the floor. “So that’s how Rosita got a hundred dollars so quickly,” she heard herself mumble.

  Mrs. Sherman placed her hands on her hips and glared down at Trixie. “I’m an old fool, there’s no getting around it. But what could I do? I happened to be awake early Monday morning when Rosita arrived and poured out her heart to Maria. I was in the pantry getting myself a glass of fruit juice and since I’m not deaf I couldn’t help overhearing every word they said. So later when Rosita came in to tidy my room I offered her five hundred dollars for all of that jewelry she was wearing. She refused to sell the junk for more than a hundred dollars, so that was that.”

  “But it isn’t really junk, is it?” Trixie asked incredulously.

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Sherman snapped. “But I happen to detest jewelry, and I’m so allergic to silver that if I should wear one of those Navaho bracelets for ten minutes my arm would look as though I had a bad attack of poison ivy.” She shrugged. “Sooner or later, in order to avoid hurting Rosita’s feelings, I’d have to wear some of her ancestral crown jewels, so I decided to depart. If I broke out in a rash I’d become a patient of that prim Miss Girard and that I could not endure.”


  Trixie scrambled to her feet. “I know now what Tenny meant when he said you had a heart as big as a horse blanket, Mrs. Sherman. But you don’t really have to leave just because you don’t dare wear Rosita’s jewelry and are afraid of hurting her feelings if you don’t.”

  Mrs. Sherman narrowed her bright blue eyes. “To be honest, Trixie, I don’t want to go. I have a feeling in my old bones that Maria is suddenly going to disappear, and then I could have fun. But there’s no way out of this noose I’ve stuck my neck into. Rosita is both proud and intelligent. And I’m a coward. I’d rather be stomped by a wild stallion than become a patient of that prissy Girard woman.”

  Trixie giggled. “If I show you how you can wear silver and not break out into a rash, will you promise to stay?”

  Mrs. Sherman crossed her heart with a plump finger. Trixie took a bottle of colorless nail polish from the cluttered dressing table and quickly painted the underside of a lovely turquoise-studded bracelet.

  “There,” she said. “The lacquer will protect you from the silver for quite a long time. It’s a trick I learned from my Aunt Alicia. She loves to sew but she can’t use my great-grandmother’s silver thimble unless she paints the inside of it with nail polish.”

  “Well, I’ll be hog-tied!” Mrs. Sherman exploded. “Out of the mouths of babes and teen-agers, as the saying goes!” She began to scrabble through her evening gowns. “Now I can wear that little number I had made especially for a dude ranch square dance. Saved flour sacks for the skirt right up until the day I sold our restaurant. That’s what the pioneer women used when they couldn’t get hold of a bolt of calico.”

  She held the dress up by its short sleeves. “There. Isn’t the squash-blossom design just as pretty as anything a Fifth Avenue designer ever dreamed up?”